


Unconventional

by junes_discotheque



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Power Dynamics, Riding Crop, this is not as deep as i think it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:09:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal has an unconventional psychiatrist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unconventional

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely sure what this is, to be honest. Mostly I just wanted to write Bedelia domming Hannibal because reasons and then it turned into this mess and anyway I wrote het?

Bedelia's contempt is in every line of her pursed lips, every carefully-enunciated syllable of her soft, monotonous speech. Their sessions begin with Hannibal sitting across from her. Both are rigid. Neither moves an inch. Not until Bedelia drops her hand to her knee and offers him a glass of wine. And with the first sip, the room darkens.

Hannibal's green and gold paisley tie is wrapped twice around his right wrist and bound securely to the arm of Bedelia's chair. It isn't specifically necessary; he would kneel regardless and if she truly wanted to keep him from harming her, iron restraints and a padlocked muzzle would be far more effective than a scrap of fabric and faith that he won't tear her to pieces.

Her faith is not misplaced. And even if it was, Hannibal doubts she'd care. His unconventional psychiatrist had never been warm, not even before her attack, but now she carries herself like she is walking through a glacier and she speaks like she is already dead. It's not the trauma of her attack, either. It's what she discovered after.

Bedelia's red, ludicrously expensive skirt is bunched around her waist. Her long nails scratch Hannibal's scalp and his cheek as she draws him in close. He would have been able to smell her arousal from across the room; this close, he is overwhelmed by it. He drags his teeth along the inside of her thigh and she shudders. She likes it when he uses his teeth. Were he Bedelia's psychiatrist, he would ask all kinds of invasive questions about her attraction to mortal danger in the wake of her near-death. But he is not, and it would be rude to pry where he has no authority.

She doesn't moan when he licks over her wet folds, but her breathing grows heavier—as it does when he hasn't given her release in a while. Her stoicism excites him, pushes him to find new ways of breaking her resolve without breaking her. It is a mental exercise as much as it is a physical one. He revels in it. 

Today, though, her hand tightens minutely in his hair and she tugs, pulling him closer, encouraging him to bring her off quickly. He smirks, flicks his tongue over her clit, again and again until he can feel her trembling against him. This is Hannibal's great victory over Bedelia, and it's the only one he ever gets—not even when she comes, her slick hot and sticky on his chin, does he feel the same rush of success.

His thoughts hover on the edge of his consciousness when she stands and brushes her skirt over her thighs. She walks with purpose. She walks like she isn't dripping down her leg (Hannibal can smell it, and it makes him snarl, makes him bare his teeth, makes him want to push her over and drag his sharp incisors over the offending trail). Her steps do not waver, not until Bedelia is at her desk, and then she unlocks the bottom drawer and takes out her crop.

It's long and black and delicate, and she slams it hard against the top of her desk. Hannibal doesn't flinch. His eyes widen and his pulse pounds against his windpipe, but he doesn't flinch. He wants desperately to touch his head to her carpet and let his psychiatrist leave burning stripes on his body, but he resists.

Bedelia would not appreciate the gesture.

She hadn't the first time Hannibal suggested it. She'd twisted her fingers in his immaculate hair (less painful, but oh, how he hated to look un-groomed) and told him that if he ever tried to manipulate her dark thoughts to the surface again, she would make sure the cops knew exactly where to look for the evidence she's always known exists. 

Bedelia does not know details. She abhors details. But the threat of the police pales in comparison to the threat of having to shuffle his thoughts around without her guidance. 

After all, anyone who labels Hannibal Lecter a psychopath is at once hysterically wrong and perfectly accurate.

She wraps her fingers over the worn handle of the crop and drags the tip across Hannibal's cheek, then presses it against his lips. She doesn't have to say a word; a simple insistent blink is enough, and Hannibal darts out his tongue to taste the harsh leather. When he takes the crop into his mouth, laving it and sucking it, it erases the taste of Bedelia—and isn't that the point?

When he goes home, Hannibal will not remember the taste of her warm thighs or her wet cunt. He will remember the cold crop, and the icy look in her eyes, and he will look at Will Graham and he will be just as cold as her. And later, he will hunt, and the taste of blood will be almost, almost, like her.

He has an unconventional psychiatrist.

But then, aren't they all?


End file.
